A Southerly Shadow
by Lairenuriel
Summary: There are more than memories haunting Amon Lanc. An OC, some redshirts, Legolas, and a brief glimpse of his Majesty...and Orchs. If this first Chapter gets response, we'll try for some magic, mayhem, adventure and a happy-ish ending. Thanks! (Hi, Gentle Readers! Edited for grammar, not content.) Changed rating to M for obscenity and mature content.
1. Chapter 1: Black Squirrels

All the Glory is Tolkien's, I just bask in it. Owning nothing, I write merely out of love and a need for self expression.

My Mirkwood elves speak Doriathrin Sinda. The best way I've seen this explained – " Imagine stumbling upon someplace where they speak the language of Elizabeth I as opposed to Elizabeth II." Even for Elves, they talk funny.

If you see romance in my Tolkien works, it will stem from canon logic. I do not slash.

Thranduil's sister-in-law is my creation, because I needed a foil for his tall, elvish Majesty. She was created for a Sweeney Todd-Silmarillion Mash-up – you can't have Thranduil singing to himself on the plains of Mordor, even Elrond would bring out the white, hug-yourself coat – and consequently evolved.

Anyone cares to leave a Review, I'd be grateful. Anyone wants to point out typos, all help gratefully accepted, and thank you! Anything else you want me to know, drop me a line.

Chapter One: Black Squirrels.

The bird-weight sang its lazy circle around them. A small, blond elfling stood with his back to the she-elf's legs, pressed tight, but his intense blue stare darted systematically along the underbrush. Both were dressed in deep summer green, the Lady wore a sleeveless coat and the child a laced tunic, over linens dyed to match the patterns of the rough brown tree trunks. As the golden cord twirled above them, the dew-drop shaped weight circled their feet as it traveled just above a thick layer of oak mast.

Ai'mithe's hand seemed to hang weightless in the air, stretched above her head. Her silver grey eyes alert and very much alive in a placid face, she too scanned amid the small patches of wild growth.

/ We should go further,/ Legolas thought, his shoulder pressing for a moment against her knee. / Further away./

This would be against Thranduil's order, and Ai'mithe chose not to waste her breath. The weight, however, picked up speed as it circled. But this acorn had come down to bounce upon root, / Everything is hid away, 'twill be lembas and berries. We hope for squab./

The Lady bit back a momentary smile. A single leaf twitched once, low on her left, and she focused. The elfling felt her shift and his little body tightened as his dark blue eyes darted, hunted, caught and held on the dying quiver. He held his breath, while the she-elf remained his steady and calm support. The weight gained momentum, an elfin thread reflecting rapid flashes of the forest's dim light. Legolas inhaled sharply as another leaf stirred and shuddered. As his head set, tilting, the weight snapped around and let fly. Ai'mithe stood poised, her fingers pointing at the canopy of oak and elm leaves high above as golden slip threaded through them. The lead drop confidently took its course, building speed before it broke through dark, waxy ivy leaves. It landed with a tiny thump, and both paused to listen a moment before the elfling's body quivered and bowed forward, waiting impatiently for release. The Lady listened a moment longer, then – when the faint, trembling sensation ceased – she nodded.

He launched like an arrow, and she followed with a slower, graceful step. Unconscious fingers gathered the slender rope, and she coiled it neatly as they leaned over small trailings of ivy, athalas, valerian, and mint. She left it to the small prince to surface triumphantly with a dull bundle of feathers. He showed her a rather lean female partridge.

Ai'mithe took it in gentle hands, beginning to sing soft thanks to Eru and the fallen prey, as she stroked the dull feathers. Her song continued as she rose to loop tiny feet with a hide thong. She tied their catch to her girdle. Slowly, they moved through the trees to the next clearing. The elfling darted and scrambled silently, sometimes perching on a limb to join his clear, high treble with hers. The Lady sang in Doriathrin, but the child merely gave voice to wordless notes.

Charmed, the great oaks surreptitiously lowered their higher branches within the reach of small hands. Dark blue eyes lit and wide, Legolas hopped and glided with one hand full of acorns gifted to him by the Truly Ancient Oak when he had stopped to stare in still, silent awe at massive branches that were far too high for even the tallest of their Court, even the King himself, to ever reach from the forest floor. While his aunt walked on, the small prince gathered handfuls of wildflowers and laid them at the base of the great trunk. To show his Favor, the Oak had dropped several clusters of leaf and nut. Legolas snatched up a few as he sprinted behind Ai'mithe's slow progress.

At one point, while they walked and sang, silent shadows flittered through the strong boughs high above their heads. Legolas' golden head lifted but he said nothing as his dark eyes followed them. Where they headed southerly, the hunters moved east. A shadow slipped forth and settled within the embrace of an ecstatic Elm. Thranduil's serene face and steady gaze emerged from beneath a dark brown leather hood as he lifted his head with a tiny shake.

Legolas waved his arms high and pelted madly to where his father crouched. As if Thranduil had not seen him, or, indeed, had any other reason to pause. Ai'mithe smiled and kept the bird weight in motion as she glided on. Her thoughts passed from one mild concern to another – the lack of small game, the hunt above ranging wider than planned, whether Thranduil would keep to this unsettling Progress or turn them north for home, and how she would keep Legolas at rest this dark - short of tying him to some woeful trunk.

Last dark neither she, nor his father, had been capable of a whole dream, so often did the elfling change his mind about where he would rest. First in Thranduil's lap on the wide, low bough, and then in her arms on the narrower branch above the King's. Thranduil had actually given in to a small moan just before dawn when Legolas decided he could see light, and that meant he could drop down to play.

A wry Silvan had muttered about sleeping with squirrels never ending well, and they'd begun the day under moonless starlight.

Now Thranduil gave her the soft call of a song bird, and when she looked to him, he bowed slightly in his perch. Then he was gone, up to become another shadow moving among restless branches. Legolas pelted back to grab her free hand, swinging it as he spilled forth with a rush of Silvan. When he quoted the King, he switched effortlessly to formal Doriathrin then back again into the flowing Silvan to add that he'd shared his gift with Ada, holding out a single cluster of acorns to show her.

' If only the Lore Master could hear him now,' She smiled to herself, and down at him, before nodding with somber attentiveness. Moments later something caught his eye and he was off, a little green leaf carried hither and fro on the breezes of an elfling's fancy.

Summer morning passed to warm afternoon. With only four birds to their credit, they paused. Ai'mithe untied them from the flat leather traveling girdle that sat low on her hips. She lifted the bundle and took its weight.

" These are not plump, happy birds." Legolas voiced it. " A mouthful each."

" One mouthful is better than none." She reminded, " But I suspect this fortune is all for today." When they spoke, it was in the general amalgam of both languages used by the King's Court. The formal syntax of Elwe's tongue became quite lively when interjected with vibrant local terms. " We shall return whence we came now. Let us hope your father's Officer's have fared better. A King who brings venison when he abides in your flets is much preferred to one who does not." She added wryly, watching as the elfling's face knotted in a frown.

He was too young to understand that hosting the King could be more than the obvious thing – the King's Favor. It could be the King's Punishment, too, if Thranduil was of a heart for it.

The elfling opined that all the honour of hosting the King, and his eclectic Court, fell to the Host, whoever he might be. Ai'mithe murmured that of course he would think this, earning herself another thoughtful frown.

There was a rustle in the trees some yards away. The child's thoughtful frown became an indignant scowl. " Unseen!" His bow was in his hand and a blunt tip launched before she could prevent it.

Luckily, Brethil was used to this. The fair haired Sinda shifted left on his drop and Legolas' pointless arrow clacked, loudly but harmlessly, against the tree trunk.

" You are our Master's joy!" The guardsman pronounced cheerfully into Legolas' ferocious face. " Come, come, little Lord, you know full well we are here at your father's Command."

" You should not be seen, should not be heard, you said!"

" In verity - I said." A low voice issued from another tree on their far side.

" Aye, 'twas Diorith." Brethil nodded sympathetically down. " But now we ask your Lordship to bring the Lady back to camp. Long have we all wandered, and a robin tells me the Hunt will take only one more hill before they too return."

" Oh." Legolas' small face smoothed in a valiant attempt at grace, " Then thanks to you, Kinsman, and you," To the other tree, " And the robin. I will escort Ai'mithe, though with no undue haste!"

" Of course not." Diorith said soberly but his amusement became known. The slim Elm's leaves shivered and chuckled. Legolas scowled again, but by the time his small head whipped around, both gaurds had disappeared overhead.

Their first steps north were silent. Truly, she thought, this acorn bounces and bounces upon gnarled root. " It ill suits a Lord to brood in the company of Lady," She scolded, " What would Ada say?"

" Ada would say that you are Ai'mithe, and while you humour the King's sour temper no other shall be your burden."

" Does he?" Ai'mithe paused and looked down at the child. Legolas nodded. He reached for her hand again.

" Aye. He also says I should do what he tells me and not what he does…" The indignation was back in force. " Just as you do."

" Well then, you have no luck at all, nay?" She laughed, " Beset by Aunt Mouse upon one side and Ada White Hart upon the other! Whatever shall an elfling do?" Leaning down she kissed his forehead then tickled his chin until a burst of giggles spilled forth.

" Hunt squirrels!" Legolas cried. He hopped back from her brandishing his bow in one hand, lightening quick. As he pelted for the underbrush, he plucked a blunt shaft from his tiny quiver, notched it surely, and was lined to fire when he became another slip of green amid the rest.

The Lady resumed her pace, but coiled away her bird-weight. As they walked, Ai'mithe's grey eyes grew thoughtful and dark. She listened, and she frowned.

" Are there any squirrels?" Ai'mithe wondered aloud to herself. She stared at the branches above them, and the frothing scraps of underbrush through which Legolas slithered. " Are there any squirrels?" She asked him when he broke one set of cover to head to the next. " Ferrets? Voles? Mice? Anything?"

" Squirrels." He blinked at her, " Though only one or two." He added as he disappeared into a juniper bush, " Odd, aye."

/ Anything?/ She asked the two guardsmen silently.

/ I have not even seen a squirrel./ Diorith returned uneasily. / Eru alone knows where the elfling sees them./

Ai'mithe knew a growing chill, and she hugged herself briefly against it. Her dark red head craning lightly, she called, " Sweetling, come now. Time for due haste, or how will we meet our weary Knights with bright smiles and a warm cup?" Though only moments passed, she called, " Enough squirreling, Legolas." Uneasily.

He emerged, the same arrow still in his bow, and shook his golden head. He was perplexed. " Black squirrels are much faster than red or grey ones. I cannot even take aim before they are gone!"

" Black squirrels?" Ai'mithe demanded.

" Aye. And black butterflies."

" Come, come quickly." Ai'mithe all but knocked the bow from his hand as she scooped him into her arms, tight to her body. " I shall carry you, be still."

" Ada says I'm too big now." Came protests as the she-elf's serene steps became a loping glide. " Ada says you're too small, he'll be angry!"

/ Lady Red Maple?/

/ Lady Mouse?/

" Black squirrels! Where did we last see them, and black weasels? Black bats?" She speeded her pace, " Black rats!"

" What is wrong, Ai'mithe?" Legolas demanded, grabbing her shoulders. He tried to give her a little shake.

" Black arrows!" She cried, just as the evil sound of black bows snarled and hissed upon the suddenly heavy air. " Goblins!" Ai'mithe raised her head and the word emerged as half song, half scream. " Goblins!"

/ FLEE!/ Diorith's command came with a final urgency. Just ahead of them, she saw him tumble down through the branches. The battle sight came upon her, just as it had long ago, and the pace of Arda slowed to a snail's crawl.

The elf was bristling with black shafts, their fletching created soft whistles under the moaning cry of leaf and branch. When he hit the oak mast, Legolas' head shot about at the noise. The elfling's lips parted in a silent scream, some terror but – yes, Thranduil's son – mostly rage.

The wood at their back became a lunging mass of black skin, red eyes, and extending claws as the Yrch threw off their camouflage. Leaves and slabs of bark erupted, brushes rose to be cast off, and their feet made the very ground thunder as they charged.

" Alive, alive," The wood echoed with snarled commands in the Black Speech, " Both alive! Bleeding is fine! Bleeding is best!"

Ai'mithe barely paused her flight, grabbing up the dead elf's sword where it had fallen from his hand. She hefted the blade as she clenched her fist in the back of the princling's tunic and kept running. Brethil flew above and before, turning back to loose arrow upon arrow.

An Orch archer found him, though. The shaft took his shoulder, sinking deep, and its force knocked him from his perch. She came level with him as he got to his feet by pushing up against an oak trunk. He snapped the black haft, leaving the point embedded. His face, already pale as moonlight, became stark with horror when Ai'mithe jerked the Prince from her chest and swung him up onto the elf's.

" Haste!" She shoved at them, " Haste!"

" Ai'mithe, what! No!" Cried the child.

" He's bigger, he can run faster! Run, run you fool, save the King's son!"

" Ai'mithe!"

" Fly you fool!" Ai'mithe again half screamed, half sung the words.

Brethil, much to Legolas' shock, turned and fled. The child scrambled madly against restraining hands, almost pulling himself over Brethil's shoulder as he attempted to escape. And to return. His last sight of Mother's-Sister brought a full scream, loud and long, from his throat. Ai'mithe's back rose straight, for all her tiny height, and the bird-weight whipped above her head as she lifted the mithril blade in her other hand. It glowed blue.

Then all was lost amid a violent sea of slashing branches and rattling leaves. " Damn you, damn you," Legolas howled, not knowing whether at the writhing tide of Yrch or the stunned Kinsman whose swift feet carried them northwest into the wood. " Damn You!"


	2. Chapter 2: Sing a Song of Glamour

September 14, 2014

I prefer the words at the beginning.

Orch – Sindarin for one Orc.

Yrch – Sindarin for multiple Orcs.

Laegrim – Wood Elves.

Sinda - A Grey Elf.

Sindar – Grey Elves.

Sindarin – of Grey Elves.

Nikeryn – Sindarin for Captain.

Edhel – A group of Grey Elves.

Apologia: To Annie Lennox. I'd write my own poetry if I didn't need my job. (This Chapter works best if you listen to this while you read it: youtu .be /vhG8zC4npsE.)

Apologies to those of you who waited a fortnight – work is utterly insane, but I will try to get something out once a week. Otherwise, my head may explode.

Gratitude to everyone who hit that "Fav" button. Particular Gratitude to Karri and princesslolitatheorca654, who took the time to write Reviews. (And to anyone who takes a moment to help if they spot any glaring mistakes!) Feedback is appreciated and welcome! (Especially typos and editing glitches!)

Um, those plot bunnies everyone talks about…mine are ferrets. Black footed ferrets – just so you know.

Legolas is about the size of a four year old, aged nine years. Since he's an elf, don't expect him to act like a human child. More OC's – because the Professor left us with far, far too much room in which to play with this Kingdom and these characters. ( Thank you, Sir!)

Chapter 2 " Sing a Song of Glamour."

The sea of Yrch at first rushed and rumbled, but their tide stilled. Red eyes narrowed, and red maws opened…to guffaw.

Ai'mithe smiled back, dipping her head in a mockery of Court grace.

" What do you intend, she-elf? Break our heads one by one?"

" _Something _will be hung and plucked, Lady Pidgeon."

" Mouse boiled in her own honey!"

" And see, she has a toothpick!"

" Ah," The Lady lifted her head, " You have the advantage, I see, Most Noisome Hoard," The weight swung smoothly into to double loops above her russet head. Ai'mithe cast a cool glance over them, and wondered at the size of the – extremely – foul scented mass of muscle and metal.

' One dead mouse.' The thought slipped calmly across. A slow, deep breath: " But, before we begin to make sport, it would be churlish for a mere mouse not to acknowledge her amazement, she does assure you. All of you, for one small she?"

" You're what we caught." One Orch shouldered to the fore of the grinning pack. Some forty others hefted flat hooks of grey iron, or turned the hilt of a dull, crude sword within huge black palms. " And once we have you, we'll flush your Prince. Or the others will." He barked over his shoulder, " Go tell the captain we have the thief mouse. Lively or I'll rip you stem to stern!" A shape crashed back from whence they'd slunk. Tall, and breasted in weathered armor, the Orch gave her the full effect of his yellow, snarling grin. Ai'mithe braced against the flat, brutal stare.

" O, long and long again has it been…" She lifted the tip of her stolen sword in a gracious sweep, " Since anyone has called her beggar mouse, or thief…" The Lady considered: eighty Yrch, at least, skulking through the Green Wood with orders to take her, and the elfling, and keep them alive. They must know the King and his Officers hunted overhead, but she understood their confidence in such numbers. Eighty against twenty five would be comfortable odds, to an Orch mind involved in this audacious incursion.

" What curious notions surface on this sunny noon," Ai'mithe mused, " A nagging notion that we have met before." She suddenly gave the hoard a real smile, and tipped her head on one side. Letting her voice grow richer and flow smoother, Ai'mithe set her course. The sword tip dipped lower, slowly disappearing behind the folds of her skirts.

" You ran on my head, at Dagorlad," One snarled amid the pack. A metal hook swang up to clang against the squat spike mounted, rather clumsily, on the top of one Orch's blackened helm. " Try it now."

" In truth?" The Lady widened her eyes, " Why, old friends - old foes - how merrily met!" Ai'mithe summoned warmth and spirit from wells long untapped, and began to secret The Song among her words. As she laughed melodically, leaning forward toward the Yrch, she thought of the dubious nature, the dangerous nature, of singing a Song of Glamour.

Once the Song was deep set, it was a powerful Act of Will. Little could combat such strength. Until it had firm root, however, it was merely a song of potential catastrophe. This Act of Will demanded a delicate step, and slight misstep or untimely interruption, could shatter the Song. Once free, its participants tended to react with proportionate indignation.

" Very well met, and a hearty time we shall have again, aye?" The weight above her head turned faster, producing a swift whine. " Let us see – forty Yrch and a single mouse disport beneath a spreading oak. The Hoard - Terrible and Fearsome - turns cold iron in many hands while a mouse has just a little dirk and an even thinner string. Now, those are odds! My gold would be on you."

Ai'mithe let the sword point drop into the earth just behind her and raised her empty palm outward. Her grey eyes swept the mob. They grinned at her, and she inhaled their hatred, their passion, their fear… " But, of course, you would be disappointed if a mouse merely fled and, knowing her as you do, you must expect more sport than that." For a moment, she grinned.

The tallest one, the mouthy one, took a long step toward her and he laughed when she took a spritely hop back. When she took another hop, he took another step. Ai'mithe, however, was where she wished to be. Bare feet curled over the protruding arch of a huge, gnarled root, the Lady raised her hand and lifted her voice. Above, dark green leaves began to shiver and below the great root system amplified the pulse of her heart.

" The silly mouse has left her sword!" She sang at them, and she cast the weight upward with a sudden rotation of her shoulder. The golden thread soared up and hit the branch above them. Its lead drop plunged down then up, and again, to wrap the bough. A slight twitch of her fingers secured her line rapidly under the weight when it came to rest. She set it with a hard tug, the action hidden behind her back. They would encircle her so she made sure of it now, before they spread out. Their eyes followed her motions with a surprising lack of scornful commentary. But then, the great tree was carrying the power of The Song, magnifying it, and they were nearly hers'.

" Hark, can you hear how her heart beats? With the rhythm of a pounding drum - it beats for you, bleeds for you, and heeds not how it sounds for 'tis The Drum of Drums, it is the Song of Songs…" The oak exalted, when her voice rose free, and they wove the spell together. " Come into her arms…and she will set you free."

Iron lifted, twisted, and the mass of Yrch swayed forward and back as if they would take a step, but they did not. Ai'mithe lifted both open palms, threw back her head, and began to sway in time. They gaped at her. Then they swayed with her. She had them, " Once I knew the rarest love, that immortal ever knew. Cruel winter chilled its blood, and froze my poor heart too. Woe – Emptiness! Woe – Hopelessness! To break the bonds of time! For there was in Arda Marred, no greater love than mine!" Ai'mithe's voice cascaded in pure notes of throbbing, sobbing pathos. The Yrch drifted left and right, surrounding her, stepping hesitantly closer to her. Then her song soared and pulsed, " Now falls the snow, now falls the snow. Be mine for ever! Let me be the only one to shield you from the storm. The vault of Mandros' Hall is laid with stars of silvered mithril. They pine for you, they shine for you. They blaze for all to see! Come into my arms again, set this torn heart free!"

The face she lowered to them showed silver tear streaks. She took a long glide forward, and they strained toward her. Rapt, their eyes ate her slightest movement. " Come into my arms again." And the weight of their darkness pressed into her. Did Mandros' Hall wait for them? Could it after what they had become? " Set your spirits free!" She lifted her hands to the tall one, the mouthy one, and took his malshapen face between tiny white hands. Memory lunged for her: screaming - screaming unanswered pleas for mercy, agony, wracking, tearing, searing pain –but Ai'mithe did not flinch – and the crushing weight of despair. She was no stranger to it. " Woe – Hopelessness! Come into my arms again, lay your proud head down…" There was absolutely no resistance when she pulled him to her. Ai'mithe arched up on her tiptoes and laid her cold lips to the searing heat of his.

" Be mine for ever…" Whispered discord clung to him, sung in him, and reached for her. Ai'mithe convulsed against the kiss – darkness writhed from him and sought a hold within her: to seduce her into compliance.

" Be Mine Forever!" She breathed, fiercely cherishing the harmony, and she gave a wordless ululation as she sank onto her heels. Grey eyes aflame, she danced back a step. The darkness clung to her like threads of molten gold. Her pale hands rose gracefully, wrapping the threads through her fingers.

They closed in from all sides now, the weight of their darkness, the heat of their pain, and she grasped the forgotten elfin thread in one of her hands. Wrapped it around her forearm and wrist, so she could sway far off balance, she looked up into the stunned face of the tall one and saw avid greed pushing violently to be known. Swaying far away from him, she stretched her free hand out to another and sang, " Be mine forever!" as she cast one set of golden threads into the air. They seemed to twist and turn to thin smoke. It flowed pale blue over the hoard.

When the great blade swang out, as she knew it would, it expertly found the thin gap between plates of worn armor. The tall Orch gutted the smaller one in a single deft stroke then lay about him with his dull blade streaming rivulets of black blood. Whispering snarls built, becoming howls of rage, and bloody lust.

Ai'mithe sprang, rapidly hauling herself up the golden cord. Still ululating, she crouched on the oak bough high above the swinging hooks and thrusting swords. Her gaze swept the melee and came to an abrupt halt when she found herself the focus of dark red fury. Their Captain had finally arrived. He stared at her over the lunging, convulsing mass that separated them. As he emerged fully from the forest, with several shadows trailing behind, she rose to exalt in wordless harmony.

If she'd thought the other Orch tall, now she must think him merely mouthy. This one towered above the rest, and she redoubled the strength of her song. He blinked, and snarled. Black eyes, rimmed in violent red, hardened as he watched his patrol redouble their efforts to kill one another. Once, long ago, she thought, he had been something.

" Take her," He barked. A shadow at his back emerged to become an archer, black bow ready, and a black haft started its song of death upon the air. Ai'mithe willed her cord to be easy, to cooperate, and it took barely a flick of her hand to free it. The bird-weight sang in harmony as it flew. Sure of her shot, she turned and launched herself from the oak bough. The arrow's song faltered as the weight knocked it from its course.

" Not yet, not yet, not yet," Ai'mithe whispered, sing-song, as she sped over mast and moss. Behind there came bellowed commands, metal clashing, and then the thunder of heavy steps. Yes, once he had been something. Perhaps something as powerful as the King. " Not yet!" Because she still sang, her glamour held. No matter that it was the barest whisper. Rapid, loping steps took her towards a supple elm whose branches were low enough for her to snatch. There was a slim possibility she could be a live mouse at the day's end, if she could reach the thick canopy above: the thin, high branches overflowing with verdant cover. She could use shadow to great affect against the bows and travel far faster. But Ai'mithe did not hope for it, plan for it, she merely knew of it. It was unlikely. Even as her fingers strained for, and touched, the first green leaves reaching out to her, that thunderous stride behind closed the distance.

He caught her by the whipping length of her braid. Ai'mithe's head snapped back and the elm seemed to retreat from her in slow motion. As she spun, dizzy with the pain exploding in her scalp and skull, she let go a sharp, high note. Power rippled, the Orch jerked – and jerked her – as it eddied around them. But he snapped her braid again. She toppled, and as she fell, his fist blotted out the dim light from above. His blow cracked against her cheekbone and she went blind from the pain reverberating in her head. Her eye felt like it had exploded. Her song shattered into a gagging moan. A cestus, he wore a cestus. She should have allowed for this possibility, as the huge fist in its leaded glove crashed down again.

' I have halved them,' Her last thoughts, ' For you, my Lord. But woe to a poor mouse. She lives.' Her body bounced amid the thick, soft layer of mast and moss as the fist rose and fell, rose and fell. Then there was overwhelming pain and nothing else.

Ai'mithe of the House of the Red Maples did not know that she was lifted from the forest floor by the back of her green leather overcoat. She did not see the great clot of bright red blood mingled with clear mucus that dropped from her face to splatter over lichen and moss. Nor did she hear the Orch, when he lifted her so her blackened, swollen features hung on a level with his.

" Hello again, my Lady." Voice rich with satisfaction, " The Master has waited a long time. For you, and your King." He lowered the little body, and walked back to the field of gored, scattered corpses. In the shadows beyond, anger and lewd fury had built among his remaining minions.

" Stupid," hissed a squat Orch who bore the white face markings of a sergeant. He kicked one of the weakly moving wounded. A long needle of a blade darted down and up quickly. He looked around, saw his Captain with one of their prizes, and whinged forth in fury, " We couldn't stop 'em, then they started on us – so we finished 'em."

This received a disinterested nod. The sergeant turned his needle to the Lady, growling, " I'll take a point for it, one of her little points,"  
The Captain laid him flat, and convulsing, with a rounding blow from the leaded fist. " No one touches her. No one gropes her, mounts her, cuts her. She's the Master's." His great palm lifted, " Now, to the high ground!"

oooOOOooo

Silent, and uneasy, figures flittered across the small clearing, breaking camp. A handful of edhel clustered under a sheltering birch, their focus on a very small bundle nestling in the mast at their center. Threads of spider silk, having been cut, floated free on the humid summer air. A small face, sunken and desiccated, lay framed by in those sticky strands.

Only one elfling lived in all the Great Green Wood now. How to tell this one's kin that she would not return to scamper up and down the open flets, or land on their backs from the low branches?

The King, particularly and understandably, was stark and silent. His hand moved to the small face, tracing the pronounced jut of a tiny cheekbone. He had cut her free and remained crouched at her feet. Two Knights also knelt, and three Laegrim looked down with them. The Knights of Doriath kneeling were nearly as tall as the Wood Elves standing. All were silent. The pressure of words waited behind their still horror.

" They must now come north." Thranduil's spoke, low and flat. " Further delay can only result in more grief." This released a low tide.

" How could such a large nest thrive undetected?"

" I will send Elebereth with word,"

" No, we must unbind her before we take her home."

" These grandchildren of Ungoliant are harrisome, my Lord,"

Thranduil rose slowly and sheathed his long mithril dirk. He took a slow, deep breath, watching silently as Galion and Maeneg sat to free the tiny corpse.

For a moment his dark eyes scanned around the camp, and paused when he reached the direction Ai'mithe had taken Legolas birding after the morning's fast break. The shadow which had called him South obscured and echoed here, dimming tree song, shortening vision, and confounding clarity. It had stripped the Wood of game, and left the few stubborn Silvan families who clung to their ancient trees in hard shape. Now it had claimed a life barely begun. He drew another deep breath and tried to discipline his thoughts from an insistent path… tiny blond braids coated in thick strands replaced the golden brown ones in his memory. His son's avid, dark blue eyes concealed behind milky death…

" Hark." Baereg turned, flicking a bundle of black braids over his shoulder. He rose, looming over Silvan beside him.

" Hark, what?" Amaic asked, with his attention focused on his own repacking.

Baereg turned a slow circle. " Do you not hear that?"

" If I heard that, you towering nut-hedge, would I ask, 'What?'"

" Someone's running," Galion rubbed his fingers in the mast, attempting to wipe off a mass of clinging strands. He pressed first one palm and then both flat to the forest floor. " No, someone's pounding their heels with everything they've got!" He rose and looked down at Maeneg. " Get your swords." As he swung his bow off his back and plucked free a haft.

Thranduil brought down his own bow, and flicked the leather strap that held his traveling sword in its hilt. He stared deeper down the shaded lanes.

" Majesty, what can you see?' Galion closed on his left and Baereg on his right.

" Shade and shadow, writhing." Thranduil heard it now, and the whistling of spent breath. For this level of noise, whatever or whoever approached should be well within his sight. " This is subterfuge," He notched a haft himself, though the bow was not his first choice, nor his better skill. " The Shadow cavorts with us."

Blade and bow came to the fore all around. The pounding rhythm grew louder. Brethil seemed to emerge from clear air, and as he passed a small stand of firs, they heard the thin, wordless howl coming from the elfling secured by both arms to his breast. The Sindarin Guard pelted for them at his full speed – considerable with that length of limb.

It took them a moment to realize that Brethil did not intend to stop. Thranduil dropped his bow, put himself in the path of wild flight, and staggered backward as Brethil's shoulders slammed into his open palms.

" Ada!" Legolas howled now, " Ada, Ada, Aaaada," As he shoved with his heels and palms against Brethil's chest.

" Peace!" Thranduil cast his Will into the word. Legolas fell silent with his small face contorted by indignant rage. But Brethil pushed with all his might, shoving the King backwards through the oak mast.

" Ai, he's gone mad," Someone muttered.

The King looked into those wide, stunned eyes and saw something he'd not seen in many long Seasons. Thranduil blinked. Faint threads encased Brethil's head like an invisible war helm. The power of a single word could not penetrate a Glamour this tightly woven.

" Legolas, down."

The elfling automatically obeyed, tucking his head into his chest. Thranduil planted his palm full on Brethil's chest, drew back one long arm and brought his open hand around.

The sharp slap sounded like a crack of thunder. The trees leaned, creaking, with the force of Will that Thranduil cast but could not put into the blow. Brethil's head snapped to the side and then forward, and his pale eyes abruptly widened.

" Majesty," He breathed out in hard surprise, then his gaze darted over the camp, as he struggled to place himself.

The King's pale face lit with bleak rage as he loomed down over the younger Sindar. Dark blue eyes flickered as Thranduil drew a quick harsh breath and tasted Ai'mithe's fading magic. " She englamoured you," A soft, accusatory hiss, " And you left her."

" Goblins, Ai'mithe said there were goblins, then she made him run!" Legolas burst out, craning around to make sure everyone heard. " We must go! We must go!"

Thranduil took the trembling bundle into his own arms. Brethil collapsed where he stood, shaking his head before he took it both hands. Swords slithered free, and arrows rattled as they hit the quiver bottom. The Laegrim took to the low branches, waiting.

Maeneg came forward, crouched, and took Brethil in one arm. The Lore Master began a series of soft, pointed questions. " Where? How many? What arms did you see?"

Baereg came to stand silently beside Thranduil as the King held the elfling on one long forearm and felt over his limbs and head.

" Ada, I am not hurt!" Legolas protested and grabbed his father's wrist in both tiny hands. " Let us go!" He did not see the glance exchanged. But he did howl again when Thranduil swung him into Baereg's waiting arms.

" Grandfather, hold him tight." Thranduil whispered, then he commanded the child, " Ion, abide." He moved to where a tall cluster hemmed Brethil and Maeneg.

" No, no, no, 'Adada, let me go," Legolas grabbed Baereg's tunic and thrust his face up, " Woe!" The child watched the armed party spread up and disappear into thick boughs. Silence, then Legolas moaned, " Woe!" and, " 'Adada…"

" Aye." Baereg patted his back. " Let us see to poor Brethil, he knows naught what Age it is."

Legolas merely hung his head. As Baereg strode to Brethil's side, the elfing considered very seriously what he should do, what he could do, and what every bone in his body urged him to. There would be tremendous trouble…

As Baereg lowered him to his feet, Legolas raised his arms and slid out of his leather tunic, leaving it dangling in his great-grandfather's long fingers.

" Sorry, I am sorry!" Legolas called back as he pelted for a low branch. He launched into a fir, then an elm, and then away while Baereg and Brethil exclaimed his name like a curse.

" Hold him tight!' Baereg snarled to himself, " Foolish me! You, sound your horn!" To Brethil, " Stir the little brothers hereabouts. Have them pluck that point from you and all follow."

" Aye, Nikeryn." But the ancient ellon had launched himself with powerful rage, up into the high oak boughs: away after their disobedient prince.


	3. Chapter 3: Where there is life

Sept. 22, 2014

Chapter 3 – " Where there is life…"

( This is a working title. If anyone has a better idea, I'm open.)

Thank You Very Much again, Karri, for stopping to leave a Review! To anyone else following this piece, excuse the single day delay! I prefer to edit and post on a Sunday, but this week everyone choose to call me on Sunday, or drop in for a visit. My consolation – I wrote most of this last TuesdayHere's Chapter Three: It's supposed to be 'The Fight' Chapter but the Sindar didn't want to Engage - they wanted to stand around affectionately insulting each other. I think maybe they're telling me that they're just darned tired of it – after all, there was no decisive victory. Or perhaps they just didn't want to kill things in front of the elfling. So, after some coaxing (and behind the scenes bribery,) we finally build into ' The Fight'.

So – to anyone who chooses to hit the Fav/Follow button, Thank You! To anyone who chooses to give me their time and write a Review – much appreciated! Grateful! . (Now, you can skip the rest of this if you want. It is long, but the Thank You's are the Most Important Part!)

Chapter's One and Two have been edited for grammar, Sindarin spelling issues and…dumb, dumb, dumb – the dead elf at the end of Chapter One stays dead. I'd really be grateful if anyone would take the time to point these problems out to me – I fix them as I discover them. Also, I tend to litter my work with Historical facts so, for example, you can read this story then go Google " English Long-Bowmen and the Bow-finger gesture". Yes, that's where we get it from. Which leads me to – I've changed the Rating to M for obscenity and adult themes.

As I mentioned: I like the Vocab at the Beginning, but I'm not including name translations. If you want them, please let me know.

Orch – Sindarin for one Orc.

Yrch – Sindarin for multiple Orcs.

Ion – Son

Nin – My

Laegrim – Wood Elves.

Sinda - A Grey Elf.

Sindar – Grey Elves.

Sindarin – of Grey Elves.

Nikeryn – Sindarin for Captain.

Elleth – a female Grey Elf.

Ellon – a male Grey Elf.

Edhel – A group of Grey Elves.

Maia – Tolkien's equivalent to twelve winged Seraphim, otherwise known as Archangels.

Eru Iluvatar – God. The Father/Maker of All and The Song's Source.

Lots of OC's, because Tolkien only gave us father, son and butler. Eryn Galen is woefully lacking in both practical detail and useful characters, leaving us to make up our own. Thank you, Professor!

Standard Disclaimer – All is Tolkien's and only borrowed for non-profitable reasons (Love.) with only the greatest Respect.

So, again, Legolas is about the physical size of a four year old, aged nine years, but he is an elfling so please don't expect him to act like a human child of either that size or age. And speaking of Legolas, let's join him -

Sept. 18th, 2014

An avid elfling raced through the thin, high branches, up near the canopy where the sunlight shown brighter, his chin jutted stubbornly forward. This was his domain. Not even the smallest Laegrim could negotiate the delicate network of springing branches. Maeneg called it "Advantage,", Ai'mithe " Security," and Galion just bubbled out bad words. Ada told him, " Be the squirrel. How often do you see one fall?"

This was not, he knew, how they had meant him to use their advice. But what else was he to do? Thoughts tumbled, the song in his head would not settle into one rhythm. He'd never seen an Orch before this day, though he had heard many stories about them and Maeneg had shown him drawings. They were bigger than he'd pictured them, and nothing could prepare one for the smell… That was all he had time to note before Brethil's mad dash.

This was not the enemy they had come to meet. Closed doors had not been able to keep facts from him. Several meetings held before their Progress had seen him deposited in the kitchen with a hazelnut cake and warm milk as bribe and distraction. But anything that took both Ada and Ai'mithe away from him must be of real import. He'd been deposited in the kitchen before, under Thedidnel's Watch, but never so many meetings, or such long ones.

So, he'd sung to the vein of silver that ran across the vaulted ceiling of his father's library, asking it to sing back all it heard. He'd long learned how to thread through the complicated music to those voices he knew best. He'd been surprised to recognize the voices of several Laegrim whose flets were in elm stands far from The Halls, Galion's own ada among them. They didn't stop to sit the board, taste the wine, and join their laughter within the harp music: they didn't stop to see him. What else to conclude, but something gone Very Wrong?

Ada had not denied it, when he'd used the direct query recommended by Ai'mithe. She'd said flatly that she would tell him nothing, after what he'd considered much artful, roundabout probing. Thranduil had not denied it, but the King had a way of turning a question…the elfling admired it covetously even when it was his question turned. He'd been reduced to sitting on the floor with one ear pressed to a thin silver streak on a wall in a dim, unfrequented corridor.

They had come for spiders, not the little one who's dewy webs glistened with beads of morning sunshine, but ones big enough to take Laegrim and Sindar alike. Ones that spoke to each other.

The Forest floor passed far below, revealed occasionally by thin places in the foliage. He was first aware of the scent – dark and coppery. Blood, he realized from the metallic tang on his tongue, and a sour taint of offal. Death, but not like the clean death of a deer taken with gratitude to feed them. This was rust, and feces, urine, blood, all swirling together. The stench became overwhelming. Legolas paused, and took a series of short drops down until he could see the carnage. He landed on a clear spot and stared in wonder.

Their mouse had wrought such havoc: all on her own. Two thoughts raced across his mind: No wonder the Knights repeatedly warned him of her temper, and the Laegrim called her " Prickly little sister," in her absence. There must be forty Yrch here, spilling their blood and guts upon the mast. Legolas stepped delicately through the tangle of detached limbs, splayed bodies, lopped heads. At first he thought something still lived, for he felt a low pulse. As he searched, with a growing frown, he grew perplexed for these Yrch were so dead they'd gone stiff, stretched out rigid. Then he thought that Ai'mithe had kept her birthname to reflect her short height. She could be under one of these hulks. Or buried alive, in a very little hole. His dark blue eyes raked the ground in a systematic pattern.

A glint in the trampled mast caught his eye: Ai'mithe's chord, and bird-weight, lay entangled with a black arrow. He picked his way over to the roots of the great Oak, where he scooped up all. Angrily freeing the golden slip, he discarded the Orchish arrow in a sharp motion toward its previous owners. When he cradled the weight in his palm, his whole arm tingled and his blood took the rhythm.

" Legolas…"

He wrenched around, wide eyes darting across the small clearing, the brown trunks, the black and grey corpses. Nothing, but…Ai'mithe sang his name, as she had since his earliest memories. When she sought him for stories, or fastbreaking, or bath, " Legolas…"

The great Oak suddenly sounded, and the roots beneath his feet seemed to given one sudden shift. His bewildered eyes stopped when he saw faint blue threads lifting like smoke amid the corpses.

" …it beats for you, it beats for you…it cares not how it sounds…"

Small hands came out to clutch at nothing, the weight slipping to tangle and dangle from his fingers.

" No greater love …" He sobbed, for this was how the Song of Songs was sung to him on chilled winter nights, before a blazing fire, " Ai'mithe!" When his father could not put off being King, or when bad dreams slipped across his waking sight, not be shaken!

"…for there is in Arda Marred, no greater love than mine…."

" You cannot go," Legolas shouted, " O, you cannot leave me!"

And it all gushed forth, in questions and pleas, the things that were selfish and which made him ashamed, " Who will wake me with kisses? Sing the learning songs with me? Take me outside when Council goes on and on and on… Bake me nut-cakes with Truest love! Who will care for me? Who will care for us? For us! If you go, who will make Ada laugh?! What will we do? Please! Please…"

But only the whisper of her Song remained, " …they shine for you, they shine for you, they Blaze for all to see…"

The elfling moaned, " ...please, Ai'mithe…"

Baereg abruptly halted his headlong flight over the boughs, latching one arm around a supportive trunk, as a swell of memory and Will rushed through the leaves and branches, making them bend and cry. The ancient ellon rocked back under such wild power, his jaw and teeth clenching. Then he drove forward, leaping so quickly from tree to tree that his booted feet barely connected. He knew the Song, and the Force of Will, and wondered what Ai'mithe had left in the earth, that Legolas had triggered…

" I love you. Do not leave me," Tears obscured all vision, and he could not breath through his nose so he snatched hard for breath, panting over and over, " O, my Mouse, my Comfort, my Mouse…"

Baereg muscled through a growing resistance, fighting along until a small shaw opened before him to reveal a patrol of dead Yrch and an ancient Oak resounding like a silver bell, pulsing with The Song and the Deep magic. He struggled with vision and sense, focusing down on a single thread of sound, " My Mouse!" Legolas' treble had worn down to a frail sob.

And Baereg snarled. Memory rose unbidden: Thranduil armored in only boiled leather, almost witless, at Dagorlad, standing over Oropher's corpse. Ai'mithe's face filled first with fury as she Sang a sharp note upward into a snarling Orch face – splitting flesh and skull with Song – even as she clutched a hand across her middle, and then her shock as pale, glistening coils of intestine filled her palm and ran out her fingers. Buckling to her knees as Thranduil shouted, " No! Mouse, no, my Mouse…" And Oropher gone beyond all help – undone by treachery within and without.

Trapped between the hills of Emyn Muir on the west and jagged black peaks on the east, they had expected only further isolation and final doom, until she had pelted madly from the provision train. Exhorting their Laegrim to sheath their swords and match her Song's rhythm with a rain of arrows, to sing forth and join their harmonies with her rage, as they watched their Golden King Fall. And what had the Noldor said? " No elleth belongs in War."

" Ignorant," Baereg hissed to himself, thinking particularly of Gil-Galad as his booted heels slammed down onto the befouled mast. Implying they had only gotten what they deserved, when neither the Great King nor his Peredhil general knew that they had unwittingly abetted such monstrosity. " Bastards."

" Who's there?!" Legolas heard the thump, jerked toward it and tried to see through swollen lids. " Stand, or I shoot!" He did not need sight to notch a blunt haft into his small bow and bring it true. He could hear, and that harsh curse in Sindarin told him that it was his great-grandfather. Baereg had a particularly hard tongue after several horns of wine. Also, it seemed, during battle, " 'Adada!"

" If you shoot me, child, I will lay a twitch across your bottom." The promise came in a quiet, gentle voice at great odds with the harshly snarled obscenity. " The old elf has had enough." He cast an experienced eye on the mayhem around them. The Glamour manifested in flickering blue threads running down into the earth, and the great Oak beat like a passionate heart. The small clearing was filled overflowing. Baereg shook his head and motioned, then sighed to himself. " Yes, foolish me, always. Come, golden babe, do not make me keep my word."

Legolas lowered his bow, but remained beneath the sheltering Oak.

" Ai'mithe is here, I can feel her." He blinked several times: his head throbbed in time with a racing heart. As vision cleared, the elfling noted again the sinuously dancing threads that found their way into the earth despite any obstacle. He could see one passing through a stiff, raised Orch leg.

" Ai'mithe's Glamour is here. 'Tis not the same."

" I thought she might be under one, or buried," Legolas winced with the pulse between his temples, " She'd take only a little hole, but it's just her Song, isn't it?"

" Just?" Baereg sighed and pushed his way through growing resistance until he, too, stood below the Oak's branches, upon the pulsing system below. " You bear the blood of the House Red Maple and you say just? Feel that, child," he spread one hand to the ground and felt each surge like a jolt up into his head. Baereg sighed again, " 'Tis a Close gift, and delicate – you must be amid them and have their full focus to commence – but once a Glamour is set, it must run its course." She had gone down singing, " And this one has been stifled. Trapped. This is not a good place to be, should it tear loose. Brethil is behind us, with the little brothers who still live hereabout, let us not expose them to it."

Legolas returned his blunt arrow to its small quiver and shouldered his bow. He stood undecided, watching as Baereg's large hand turned outward to him. The ancient ellon drew a deep breath, started to step forward, when the earth under their feet lurched. From the south there came a low, rumbling harmony. Both ellon and elfing turned their faces to it. Even at this distance, they recognized the tune. The Knights advanced upon their enemy while Laegrim arrows hissed home.

The child gave a wordless cry as he launched into a dead run toward the Song. Baereg let go with several snarled obscenities and tried to give chase. Whatever it was that pushed upon him, obviously affected Legolas not at all. He'd fought his way through three steps when Brethil emerged from the boughs with a twelve of the local Silvans. Elleth and ellon alike, as was their very sensible way, had full quivers on their backs and bows in hand.

" Tis like negotiating in molasses," Brethil breathed heavily and took two slow steps. His shoulder was bandaged but he'd abandoned use of the sling which hung across his chest.

" After him…" Baereg pointed. Then he fell silent, staring as the blue threads thickened, covering the whole clearing in a writhing cloud. It sank rapidly into the earth beneath them. The ground lurched again. A deep rumble swept southward in an invisible wave, making the leaves overhead tremble.

" Run!" Baereg took his own advice, following Legolas. Behind him, he heard the earth crack and heave, pelting their retreating backs with clods of dirt and mast, as it swallowed Orch corpse and tree alike.

oooOOOooo

The forest simply stopped and gave way to a stony clearing. Lichen and fragile tufts of grass led up to a natural land-bridge. Below, the crevasse had been gouged into deeper, menacing drop. The Yrch had taken a confident stand before the bridge. Pikes and lances bristled from the front of their Line. Iron hooks and ill-kempt blades rose amid the middle and at the back stood their Officer, very tall, very broad, with familiar patterns painted on his malshapen face.

Paused just behind the tree line, the Sindar pulled forth great blades of mithril, two each, and emptied their quivers, handing the arrows up to be distributed among Laegrim archers. The Capitol had once been a Fair sight, with woven withy domes and a single elegant spire rising to touch the Solstice sunrise. Now an oily, living mist thickened even as they watched.

Maeneg lifted his golden head and then one hand. A series of gestures silently communicated positions and strategy. Thranduil took point, after a couple of emphatic waves received his stubbornly uplifted bowfinger.

" What shall we Sing?" Hethunor of the Red Maple asked in a normal tone. Above, all the archers gave a single twitch and Galion hung his head, shaking it.

Nine sets of shoulders lifted and fell. Thranduil assessing the enemy, didn't turn, but asked conversationally, " What would you like to sing, Brother?"

" If he says Tra-Lolly-Lolly, I shall surrender." Maithern thought onto the air. " Or fall on both my swords, right now."

" Everyone hates the barrel song, so Wind and Wave?"

" As you will," The King nodded slowly, then looked around. " Start us off, hey?" With a smile, " Then we'll fetch your sister and go home."

Huthenor smiled back, tied his copper braids with a thong and lifted both great blades as he produced a low, bass note. Taking his place at the wingtip, he completed the formation. The other Knights added their voices, recreating the low, rushing rhythm of waves. Above, Laegrim archers began their rain of arrows as the Sindar stepped from cover to make The Bird advance slowly. The blades began to dance, whispering as they slipped past one another.

With each long step, their swords confidently picked up speed until they were a series of glinting arcs on the air. The Yrch at the fore realized what they faced and pushed back with their heels while those at the rear lunged forward to escape a solid fall of iron tipped hafts hissing down on them. Squeezed in the midst, the Orch Commander shoved and elbowed, then planted a foot on an unfortunate back. Balancing above his hoard, he grinned. He lifted his small burden and flipped her up on his forearm, displaying his work.

" Thief, come get your accomplice…."

The King smiled widely, "The dead cannot be robbed." He laughed in response. " Give me the mouse, I may let you live." The smile showed teeth.

" I resent that. I, too, stole that gold. It was heavy." Maithern thought. " My portion was only a tenth!"

" No one ever remembers us."

The Knights' song grew loud, here and there becoming a roar, as the great blades met resistance and sliced through. Battle screams rose from open Orch throats to compete with the Knight's wordless exultation. The first row fell, thrusting pikes and lances unequal to the distance. The swirling blades went through armor and flesh easily and the next layer of Yrch sprawled atop the first, leaving the Knights to kick them aside or stomp into thick patches black blood, sending it splashing over their hunting boots.

" Nostalgic memories of armor…" Celebrethil thought, as he twisted left and momentary broke pattern to jab his blade into a helm eye-slit.

Maeneg took the whole head clean off for him and Celebrethil cast it forward from his sword tip. He grinned into Maeneg's bland face as it smashed into the Orch commander's chest and tumbled him backward.

" Nice!" Huthenor sang aloud. Then his long body wrenched as a black arrow seemed to appear in his shoulder. His left blade dropped and he fell out of the Line.

" Hold them down!" Thranduil sang back to his own archers as he continued to advance. The pattern was broken, and there was naught to do but raise both blades together and bring them around as one in whistling sweeps: the Close-Work began. Behind them, the archers adjusted the angle of their bows. Arrows came now in hard, aimed shots darting between the tall Sindar.

oooOOOooo

The elfling heard them above him, whispering sing-song as their bowstrings sang sharp little notes. The Laegrim insulted each other with forced, casual affection. Legolas silently skidded to full stop. His blond head craned up so he could pick out the brown and green clad archers perched on the supple middle branches.

" That one went down the hole."

" You missed."

" Idiot, the tall ones are ours'."

" My grand-naneth can aim better than you."

He reached up to a friendly elm, and it strained to dip a branch into his reach. The trees, he realized, were oppressed and struggling. Here it was obvious. They were dying, but not in their normal, slow way. The flow of energy between root and land had been broken. They were blackening from the bottom up: poisoned to death. Legolas bounced into the elm and wrapped his arms around its trunk. " I am sorry," he whispered, because he could offer only a moment of comfort – which the tree wouldn't understand – without any real aid.

Then he found himself plucked upward. Galion said something particularly bad under his breath as he slapped Legolas down onto his back. The Silvan pinned the elfling with his knee and calf as his fingers returned grasp arrow fletching.

Galion hissed, " This is my place on the Line," with such passion that Legolas froze, his blue eyes jerking wide. " My hafts fill a hole, little one," His knee pressed into one of Legolas' thighs as he shifted, staring out through the foliage. He quickly plucked two arrows and skillfully launched both at once, using his hand as a double guide. When Galion shot, his calf pressed and drove the air from Legolas' body in a hard woosh. The elfling gaped, stunned.

" Ai, it's terrible," For a moment Galion softened, leaning down so his brown braids fell on either side of the tiny, pale face. " If the King had dreamed this, he would have left you both at home. But since you're here, Legolas, help. Help your father, don't distract him."

Legolas blinked with the realization, so great was its impact. " How?" the word was a breathless croak, " How?"

" Sorry," The Silvan shifted back and freed Legolas from the weight of his leg. Crouching, he set two more hafts to join their songs with the others darkening the air. " Catch your breath, then climb up – straddle two level branches and peer around the trunk. Use it as your shield. Then - use your Long Sight, tell us where to sink these for best effect." For now his body rocked as he took shot after shot, his bowstring in constant vibration. " Our goal is to keep them from the bridge. Trap them between our points and the Knights' blades…you see?"

Galion looked at him for a moment, hazel eyes wide and of a very green cast. " Got your breath?"

" Yes!"

" Good lad, go – and stay behind our Line so no one shoots you in the back!"

Legolas paused, his hands on the branch above them, to give Galion fierce glare, which made the Laegrim ellon bark out a laugh.

" I am not stupid." Legolas fumed as he bounced up a second branch, then another.

" I don't know…" came a soft song of a voice.

" You ran TO battle…" Another.

The Laegrim archers were spread out – forming the Line, Legolas realized – among the trees and they hectored him now. Teased him in the same soft, harsh song with which he'd heard them teasing each other on his arrival.

" Only a fool runs toward Yrch!"

" The Knights all do,"

" My Point! Or Points."

" Ai, watch where you sink those! You nearly took off Meaneg's braid!"

" That was your haft, now't mine."

The elfing planted his feet firmly several yards above their head and looked down across the short, open space that separated the trees from the hill. Once, this had been Oropher's Capitol, Amon Lanc, but now the graceful spire that Ai'mithe and Ada described – dreamed – was gone. Legolas frowned, blinked again but this time to help him focus the Long Sight.

He moved his head around the trunk, " I see only shadow and shade, dancing slowly. There is magic over all of it, thick like snow. Beneath it cavorts something…but I can only feel it." Back to the other side, " Maeneg and Ada are in full Fandango, making the beak of The Bird. Celebrethil just tossed a head. O, the big Orch went down. He dropped something." The elfing gasped, " Hethunor is down!"

Galion stood and pointed his arrows into the melee. As he picked off an Orch archer, he breathed hard. The elfing was, thankfully, too inexperienced to realize that the "something" had been his aunt. Or that his uncle was, as always, the weakest point in the Knights' formation.

" Two more archers manage to get their bows up, by the bridge." Both Galion, and Amaic to his left, shifted, pulled and released.

" Got them." The elfling grinned, his voice rich with satisfaction. Then he looked down and whispered, " Ai!"

Baereg glared up at him from the forest floor. Legolas jerked his gaze back towards the field and hastily reported, " One more by Maithern, just getting his tip in the air. Ada is almost dead center now, see how he cleaves!"

" Come down," Baereg hissed.

" He's being handy," Amaic protested as he kept shooting.

" All of you! To ground!"

" We still have arrows," Galion whispered, then he whipped around abruptly. " Drop!" His whisper became a full shout in unconscious Silvan.

A dozen or so Laegrim and one wounded Sinda pelted madly before the approaching wave. Behind them, branches were stripped bare of dark summer leaves by the force of a roiling blue cyclone. Boughs snapped and thick trunks bent to touch the rolling earth. Even the very bark tore free to swirl within the whipping wind. Jagged, crackling white lines - tiny strikes of lightening – danced, leaping up to spark against anything they touched.

The archers came down with thuds. Legolas dropped with them, though into Baereg's waiting arms. " 'Adada, 'tis it?" he demanded just as the ancient ellon shouted, " Down, down!"

Baereg's chest covered him, pressed him into the mast and blotted out his sight. He heard, and felt, as the others dove for cover.

Thranduil felt it on his nape first, a frisson that ran up his skull and made the long length of his braid crackle. The great blades began to leave sparking trails in their wake. The King's battle grimace became a feral grin. " Ai'mithe."

It was Maeneg who turned, and stopped dead with one blade buried in Orch throat. " Eru Iluvatar!"

Celebrethil was more direct, " Shit!" when he looked back.

The King cleaved on, for his prize was nearly in arm's reach. She swung from a massive fist two Yrch deep. Never to be titled "Fairest", the face which held a sardonic charm all its own was now a swollen, blackened flower dripping blood from lip and nostril. Long ago, he'd told her he didn't need her beautiful, he needed her strong – and he prayed she was as strong now as she had been then.

The Yrch were terrified, but they faced into the storm. Some of them broke, others fell into wild, mindless attack and no one missed the arrow barrage when it suddenly stopped. Lightening danced up around their boots in tiny bursts. It clustered and began to grow.

" You could have lived." Thranduil drew abreast the twisted creature that had captured and beaten his most constant friend. " Give her here, and we shall both step back." Because the foolish Orch really had no idea what was about to break loose. Thranduil felt the waves rising beneath him, pressing against recalcitrant stone instead of malleable earth.

The Orch met his eye with such a confidence that the King's head drew up and back. When it spoke, " My Master greets your Highness again… O, you've become your Majesty now." Thranduil experienced absolutely no surprise. It lifted Ai'mithe and dropped her face down into her own Glamour. The veil of shade and shadow behind the Orch's back suddenly thinned to naught.

" Maia," Maeneg breathed out at Thranduil's shoulder, as they stared together at the all too familiar black tower rising where Oropher had once sat enthroned. It was, he thought disjointedly, an exact replica of Barad Dur but in smaller scale. ' Ai'mithe would say…same old song and dance…' And that little thought allowed him to rip free. Free of the momentary mix of despair and terror that still threatened the veterans of Mordor, his veterans, gathered here before this new dol goldur. Free, to think that he could not - must not - let it infect Legolas as well. ' Let the shadow lie over him, not within him.'

With a serene face staring at the hundreds of Yrch gathered on the far side of the new, raw crevasse, Thranduil lifted his left blade. Starting low, it slide into flesh like warm butter, building momentum as it penetrated the Orch at his groin to emerge just behind his left shoulder.

"…run…" came calmly from behind, though he had missed most of Maeneg's words. " Now, my Lord." As the King freed his blade with a jerk and twitch of his shoulder, Maeneg again urged him, " Grab her and run, Thranduil."

Which was perfectly good advice. He reached down and took Ai'mithe's leather coat in his hand. But, Maeneg had not known her all her life…and he could not sense how she had put her last measure of Will into working a Glamour designed to only one purpose.

The storm swirled at their backs as if poised. Thranduil turned his head and shouted, " Ion nin!" For a moment there was silence, and he could not breathe. All Arda stopped and paled. Then, it came.

" Adaaa!" Legolas was, of course, angry.

The storm broke free – the blue whirlwind and its growing arcs of lightening slammed past, nearly knocking them all forward. Thranduil felt the stone quiver beneath his boots and began a rapid backstep. As they retreated, where they had stood cracked wide. Shards of rock as large as an elm and as small as a rice grain became liquid, glowing, as they drove across the crevasse. They shattered the land-bridge. Spread over the Yrch and lit them like young firs full of resin.

She had set it to protect his son, and now Mairon faced nothing less than a mother's love for her child. It mattered naught that she had not born him. Rosmerilin's death had left her to assume the role, and the injuries she'd suffered in Mordor assured she could never have her own. All of her was invested in that disobedient little… Thranduil swung her into his arms, turned and shouted to Maeneg, " Let us retreat, nay?", as the lightening began to strike in earnest, repeatedly, against the tower and into the newly hewn gorge. They ran.

His disobedient son landed on his back at one point, but he could only juggle his swords and Ai'mithe's little frame, so he shouted, " Hold on, Legolas! Hold on!" Behind them, the tower split though it did not fall, and Mairon… Sauron now, he remembered… released his frustration with unearthly screams of rage. Beneath it all whispered the Song of Songs.

" North!" Legolas pointed, as if they did not all know. Sindar and Laegrim alike, they ran. Only to stop when the cacophony behind had dulled to the faintest disturbance.

" That was fucking Mairo.." Hethunor found Celebrethil's wide palm over his mouth. His green eyes darted to Legolas.

" Swear all you want! Do not say that name!" Celebrethil corrected the misassumption, " Or whatever name it goes by now! Just be silent!" Hethunor nodded.

Maeneg muttered, " Let me see her," and came forth to lift Ai'mithe from Thranduil's arms. The King caught Legolas and pulled him against a wide chest when the child leapt to follow.

" Healers need peace, not the many questions of an elfling." Thranduil reminded softly. And for the first time, ever, his little Green Leaf sputtered into silence. Legolas buried his face in Thranduil's hot throat and tiny fists wove into his tunic. The elfing twisted and writhed as he tried to master his passion. Thranduil took two or three harmless jabs and slaps in the process, but he stood calm, patting the small back until finally Legolas emerged, panting in exhaustion, to scrub at his wet face.

A loud sniff. Then big blue eyes framed in spiky black lashes assessed his father's calm face. Legolas heaved a long sigh. " How much trouble?" he asked in dejection.

" An entire world of trouble." Thranduil smiled at him tenderly. He shifted the elfing onto one arm and reached around to gather the little bundle of blunt arrows from the tiny quiver. Showing them to his son, he then tossed them into his own quiver, listening as they dropped and disappeared.

" O!" Legolas stared at him in utter horror, " No!"

" Shall we also take the bow?" Thranduil asked, his grin growing.

" No! No-no. Thank you, Ada."

" No, thank you, ion."

Thranduil glanced around. Maeneg had his herb satchel at his side, broad back blocking them out of his silent triage. A Laegrim elleth sat beside Hethunor and nodded good-naturedly at his chattering while she prepared an arrow spoon for use in his shoulder. A moment later – " Owww!"

" Ai'mithe would not whinge so." Legolas loftily informed Hethunor.

" My sister is a mean little mouse." Hethunor laughed, " As you've seen for yourself."

Thranduil lowered Legolas and said, " Walk about now. We will leave shortly." There were many things that he needed to tell the child but they would have to wait for the safety of the Hall. The King drew a deep breath. First, he must tell Adiag and Thelial how grieved he, and all their people, felt with them in their loss. Offer them what little comfort he could and persuade them to abide in the Hall until a new stand of trees could be found for them. Then, he must listen to Maeneg's diagnosis of Ai'mithe's injuries. After that, he would put as much distance as he could between his kin and that small black tower.

Maeneg turned, saw he was unencumbered by elfling, and jerked his head. Thranduil assured himself that Legolas was fully occupied questioning his elders and moved to look down on Maeneg's back…and Ai'mithe beyond. He winced.

" Let me take her and go." Maeneg said. He had Ai'mithe on her side, but she sank onto her back as he turned to talk to Thranduil. " I can be home just after dawn tomorrow if unencumbered."

The King's dark blue eyes winced away again as sticky blood bubbled from her nose and lips. Yes, if he took to the trees and traveled without rest, he could halve the two day trip. Thranduil opened his mouth to wonder aloud if it were necessary when Ai'mithe's heels began a rapid tattoo against the earth. The blood stopped bubbling. Maeneg cursed under his breath and flipped her onto his arm to hold her suspended while a long stream of blood and mucus poured from her face.

" 'Tis a deal of damage." Maeneg growled.

" Go." The King whispered. " Go now."

" This time, you hold on to your son."

" Aye."

He gathered up Legolas as Maeneg gathered up his herbs and tools. When the Lore Master climbed into an oak and had Celebrethil hand her up to him, the elfling's attention riveted to the motion. As Maeneg began his steady run, Ai'mithe folded head-down over his shoulder, Legolas' howl blasted the King's ear. Thranduil clenched his teeth, muttered, " Ai, banshee!", but let the child empty his lungs. Then he deposited the fuming, miniature version of himself into Baereg's embrace.

" This time, 'Adada,"

" This time I strap him to my side!" Baereg reached down to unbuckle his wide leather belt.

" Wait, I have rope!" Galion appeared in time to be helpful to one and a bane to the other.

" O, grand! Give it here."

" No! No-no-no-no!" Legolas chanted furiously. But he didn't struggle.

" If you do not wish to be tied to 'Adada…and perhaps 'tis more of a case of 'Adada not wishing to be bound to you…then you do not leave his side until we are in the Hall." Thranduil dropped each word like lead weights.

" I did not shoot you, you cannot twitch me!" Legolas had mastered distraction about four years ago. Baereg looked off innocently into the distance but Thranduil only fell for this bait when he thought there was some good fun to be had from it. Otherwise -

" Give me your word, ion." Thranduil leaned in to stare Legolas down.

" Yes, Ada."

" Yes, what?"

" I will cling to 'Adada like a limpet until we get home."

" Until we are in the Hall."

" Until we are in home."

" Now, I must go talk to the little brothers and sisters. Try to be good."

" We are going home, straight away home? Aren't we?"

Thranduil nodded. He left Galion swinging a loop of golden rope before Legolas's dark blue glare and Baereg looking down serenely at the argument about to erupt on his chest. The King glanced at the trees, the mast, and the flickers of light working down over all.

He wondered what Elrond and Galadriel should write back if he told them he had a Maia in his southern stands. ' No, you don't.' So, he would let them discover it themselves- using the same courtesy they so often afforded him.

' Where there is life, there is hope.' He thought, ' And so my people live.'


	4. Chap 4 2 Noldor 7 Naugrim & A Dalish Cow

Chapter Four: " Two Noldor, Seven Naugrim and a Pure Bred Dalish Cow."

As usual, a day late…and it's fluffy. But I promised them some fun. Since things are still a little too serious for one of their infamous all night, twenty casks o' wine, merry merrymaking – this is a bribe. And, finally - Welcome to Elladan and Elrohir Elrondion, who are about to have a Serious Eye Opening.

Karri – Thank you again for taking the time to write a Review: Very Much Appreciated. To everyone else who hit the Fav/Follow button, All Gratitude!

Now, please excuse the Fluffy bits but the story does progress despite them. And if anyone would like to point out grammar and editing errors, that would great!

And I still like my Vocab at the beginning –

Orch – Sindarin for one Orc.

Yrch – Sindarin for multiple Orcs.

Ion – Son

Nin – My

Laegrim – Wood Elves.

Sinda - A Grey Elf.

Sindar – Grey Elves.

Sindarin – of Grey Elves.

Nikeryn – Sindarin for Captain.

Elleth – a female Grey Elf.

Ellon – a male Grey Elf.

Edhel – A group of Grey Elves.

Valar – Tolkien's equivalent to twelve winged Seraphim, otherwise known as Archangels.

Maia (Singular) or Maiar (Plural) – Tolkien's lesser angelic host.

Eru Iluvatar – God. The Father/Maker of All and The Song's Source

Dagor Dagorath – The Battle of Battles or Apocalypse in which Arda Marred is unmade and then re-Sung by Eru and a predominantly human chorus.

Naugrim – Sindarin for dwarves.

Nibin – West Beleriand slang for the Petty Dwarves perceived 'Infestation."

Noegyth Nibirr – Sindarin term for the Petty, or lesser, Dwarves exiled in ancient times for un-remembered reasons. Also referred to as Tad-dail which means two legged animal.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Tolkien and Lehrer's Estate's are Lucky!

Here is Legolas, about the size of a four year old, aged nine years, and he is an elfling, please don't expect him to act like a human child. He's having A Very Bad Week -

September 27, 2014

" Woe!" He paused, crouching under an old elm. " A world of trouble, can there be two worlds worth of trouble? Such trouble." Legolas took his head in his hands for a moment. A curious ferret slowly pushed from the undergrowth and blinked at him. " So much trouble."

A soft, inquitive hoot, " Whooo," made him lift his eyes to see he'd woken an owl. It fluttered its soft feathers and asked again, " Who?"

" Myself, of course." He told them, jerking his chin at the ferret, and he climbed a small fir so he could stretch way up and grasp the courteous branch dipping down to him. The ferret followed in a zig-zag rush up the elm trunk, went past him and settled a safe distance from the owl – and Legolas couldn't blame him. It was a very large owl blinking at him and craning its head for a better look. When he'd settled himself on the bough below the owl's, to sing his Song of Woe, his audience increased by two red squirrels, a larger grey one, and a twitchy little chipmunk with a black stripe down its tail. Several birds, tiny finches and a grey mourning dove, fluttered, darted, and landed on the thin, supple branch above.

Legolas drew himself up, satisfied eyes moved over an impressive audience. At least, he wouldn't be singing to himself and – though he didn't hope for much from the squirrels, chipmunk or ferret – the owl might have some sage advice. He could rely on the birds for copious sympathy, in fact the finches were cheeping softly at him now. The owl twisted its head all the way, as they could, and then settled back with a little snap to show it was waiting.

" This very morning, I woke to no one, to nothing. I woke alone. And then I read Ada's note – he'd pinned it to the bed curtain so I must see it – and he said try to be good, and go to the kitchens…" And it spilled out. He had, as he said, woken alone in his father's bed – which was his bed also – and found the soft, imported silks sliding against his skin: all his skin. " No nightgown! None!"

He didn't feel the need to tell them that he'd fallen into Dreams in Baereg's arms and had no memory arriving at the Halls the night before. He hadn't meant to, he'd meant to make someone – mayhap Thedidnel or Celebrethil – take him to the Healing Hall in order to press sympathy until Meaneg let him see Ai'mithe. But the moment his eyes had spotted familiar trees, comfortable landmarks, and his ears had caught the faint melody played by the Forest River… he'd slipped into Dream. Vague memories rolled in his mind, surfaced and sank again in memory's dim flow: Ada's quite voice as he was moved about, sipping honey water, and Thranduil's soothing voice again, " Back to dreams…"

" I thought - Thedidnel will be most busy, and have little sympathy for me being thrust upon him, when Ai'mithe cannot do her part. But there was too much water in the pitcher and instead of going in the basin it leapt right out again! Now awash, I thought this bathed enough and tried to dress but my drawer had no clothes! Well, merely an old tunic which no longer fit and a pair of leggings with a hole in the very seat!

And off to the kitchens like this… for no one came even though I cursed my loudest. And what does Thedidnel say when I appear soaking, unbraided and exposed to the wind? ' You are very naked.' As if I knew it naught! He is rolling pastry and cannot put it up. Ladalai takes pity on me: wraps me in her shawl and moves my stool by the fire. All she can offer hot is porridge. Not even an apple to cut up in it, for no one has lately broached a barrel. Ada must have drowned his in milk! We hate porridge." The long lament went on, sung in alternating rapid chops or mournful flows. Ladalai had finally brought him a toasted nut cake split and filled with cream – forbidden by Ai'mithe for fast breaking but he had been too unhappy to enjoy it! Ladalai was Galion's sister. Her eyes were the same changeable hazel as his, but hers were more often soft and warm. She'd called up the corridor to the Seneschal's office. Legolas had asked her, " Please, you take me." But she'd replied that there was too much to do, and unexpectedly at that, if the King's board was to hold supper tonight. When Galion appeared, a short while later, Legolas hadn't even had the heart to glare at him.

" Ai," Softly, the brown haired Laegrim had knelt before him, " Hopefully the Ladies have finished sowing you at least one new set of clothes." And Galion's sympathy had been too much to bear. Legolas had buried his face in Ladalai's shawl and cried. He'd cried as his head was lifted to a strong shoulder and he was carried to the securely deep chamber where the Ladies' sat. No lit glow globes, no Ladies, but Galion had sorted through shadow and fabric until he'd produced a linen tunic, leggings, and a green vest embroidered with silver birch leaves. Then they'd gone back to the King's suite where his hair had been combed – unsnarled and untangled with some grumping back and forth – and neatly braided away from his face. Then, Galion had said – " Your father is in Privy Council all morning now, and probably most of this afternoon. Coming back early has thrown the Household into confusion. Can you be big enough to mind yourself today?"

Today of all days, when he wanted nothing more to be rocked in warm skirts smelling of lilac, or lily-of-the-valley, or winter mint. " I want to see Ai'mithe."

The question had gotten him drawn eyebrows and a frown. " Maeneg." Galion shook his head and said that Maeneg was very busy.

In the Healing Hall, taking care of her, he meant. Legolas had submitted to having his face washed and took his wooden, clacking duck when it was handed to him. He sat disconsolately with it in the corner while Galion cleared up the spilled water, and gathered the traveling garments that Thranduil had left piled in his reading chair. Legolas' had sunk in defeat when he realized – he could have put them on.

" So, I am stupid." He cast one hand to the owl, " Not a nice thing to know." Not when Ada was King and needed clever people around him. " Not nice a'tall. But I intended to be good. In my heart, I truly did." He paused, sighing heavily. A tiny noise alerted him just as the elm shivered its slight warning. Legolas let the pause continue, reaching out to touch the rough trunk with his fingertips. The nearby birch, so old its bark had darkened, had an occupant….no, two. No one he knew, though, no one the trees knew – and that was surprise.

" Tis not that I meant to take his arrows," Legolas continued on in the dialect of the local Laegrim, " But the quiver weighed too light and did not balance… Then, they were too tall to fit well…" He reached back and took up one of the long hasps. The distinctive pale gold fletching did not get the reaction it would have from one of their kin. But, these were edhel – unlike the two other encounters he'd had since leaving the Halls in sheer, blind rage and open defiance. He'd still been very angry when he'd encountered the Man from Dale on a path close to the caverns. He touched the fletched feathers with nervous fingers for a moment. He'd known the mortal from Dale, had been in his house, sat his table, and apologizing had been the only remedy for it. Thedidnel had warned him to always shoot calm, and attentive. The Man had been still and wary at first, then confused and finally very kind to the horrified elfling. " Your father will make it right."

He'd hoped so, but he did not see how. Even Ada couldn't bring back a dead…whatever it had been. Not a deer. Not a horse, for he'd seen them in Dale. But Thranduil would like it naught when a dead animal was brought to him with his own arrow the cause of its death.

" And then, there were those damned Naugrim!" Little, and trying to sneak onto the road to avoid the King's lawful toll, and mean. He'd lost his bird net and a section of golden slip, a section he could use right now, on them! They had smelled like the Yrch – cold metal and rust. And something had been very, very wrong with their faces. Once he'd had all of them tangled and trapped, he'd stopped to stare at the dark masses springing from their chins. When they'd called him names in Khuzdul, he'd called some right back. Their shouting had attracted the local edhel, and Legolas had left to the tumbled, swearing pile to be found in his place.

" Call me a little blond bastard." He snarled, " Stinking, fucking Naugrim. I am taller than any of them! And I do not have something trying to eat my face."

He stopped and apologized to owl. " You would never turn the air dark with such words." Legolas shifted on the bough and freed from his belt a length of slip. Its end disappeared down along the fir he'd climbed to reach the elm. The two above him had separated now, he could sense one east and one south, but this would not do. He'd set a snare for only one prey, hoping for something to bring home…a vague, half-formed thought of apology, or excuse.

" But after arguing with Hethunor, I was sorely pressed!" He sighed. " I do not feel any better a'tall." The little birds had fallen into a mesmerized silence during his tirade, and now they offered again their soft, trilling sympathy. The ferret had rolled onto its back and stared at him upside down, looking up into the spreading branches with watchful black eyes.

Legolas reached out a fingertip and rubbed the exposed fur under its jaw. The squirrels only now realized they weren't alone and slowly began to flatten themselves to their branch. But squirrels were not known for their wits. The great owl fluttered its soft feathers almost noiselessly. A series of low clicks and inhales communicated comfort, and advice. Wordless, he would have been hard pressed to speak it, but he closed his eyes when he felt such simple truth. He drew a deep breath. Trust the rhythm, flow with it, sing with it, beat your wing in time to it, not against it. There was order in the seemingly random chaos, patterns and means, and when he acted and sang in harmony with them, he would feel better.

The owl gave him a piercing stare before closing its dark, round eyes. Legolas nodded slowly. Starting the day as he had, in wild discord with every familiar thing and every one, he'd blundered along against not only those who loved him but himself as well.

Lifting his head up, he looked through the dappled light, through the dense veil of leaves, and he breathed deep. Then dark blue eyes opened to reveal a wicked glint and the elfling grinned. When the song exploded forth, it was in Doriathrin, loud, and proudly martial:

" Fight fiercely, Imladris, fight, fight, fight

Demonstrate to us your skill.

Albeit you have iron might,

Nonetheless, we have haft and Will!" And he sang all of it, with the same fine scorn the Knights and the Silvans sang it after many horns of wine had been passed. And the two above him did react. At first they came together, then they circled…and he could feel their indignation. They were bigger than him, but not full grown. No, they were too were mere elflings! An adult would not rise to such obvious bait.

Legolas stood and walked the length of the bough, closer to the trunk and the small fir, and the hunters who did not know they were prey moved too.

" How will you celebrate your victory?

Invite Mairon's Yrch 'round for tea?

How Jolly! Chase that ring down

The Field, and fight, fight, fight!" When he dropped onto the mast and strolled into the underbrush, they landed one after another behind the elm trunk. And, he had them. He'd left the slip looped over the bough and now he turned to make a mad dash. The rope in his hands jerked and he heard wordless exclamations of shock and anger. An exulted war cry broke the song as he hauled with everything his body would give him. Above, the ferret gave forth an excited, chittering laugh. Then Legolas rounded back, into the underbrush, to make a quick circle. He ended up standing facing them. They were looped to each other then both to the helpful trunk. He'd gotten all four arms, he noted proudly.

" Noldor," He stopped dead, fell silent. They were Noldor, and they were edhel – black braid, pointed ears, the symbols of Imladris on their very fine leather work – but they were each other's mirror image. Legolas stared from one to the other wordlessly for long moments. He frowned.

" Nay!" He shook his head, pulled harder on his rope, and blinked. Yes, they stayed mirror images of two elflings a head taller than him.

" Very clever," Said one, and though he meant it he also meant flattery.

" You're very fast!" The second one said, but with no artifice.

' O, such trouble!' Legolas thought to himself.

oooOOOooo

" What is that?" Galion asked Thedidnel. The tall blond Sinda stared at the mortal Man, at the group of Laegrim carrying a large animal on two poles, and then down at Galion.

" A cow. With the King's haft in its skull."

" Can you get it out before he gets here?" Galion looked back into the Halls through the wide flung Gates. Thranduil had asked them to open, once he'd been made aware of the situation, in case Legolas chose to return this way. The elfling could not doubt his welcome if he saw the tremendous, iron studded and banded doors standing wide to the world.

" Nay. And, pray tell, do what with it? And how did the cow die? Nay, the poor elfling, he bubbles in the soup now."

" Hethunor should be gagged. Perhaps whipped, just once or twice…" Galion muttered under his breath. Then he looked back into the Halls and Thedidnel turned simultaneously: they both felt the slow, low pulse that heralded Thranduil. The King emerged from his Keep with a long, purposeful stride. Just outside the Gates, he paused to stare over the scene. One dark eyebrow lifted.

The wide apron of grass leading up to the huge gates had its usual occupants – Laegrim traders with furs and herbs, those who wished to trade with them, petitioners who would camp out, or come in as they wished, while they waited for an Audience Day, and Maithern seated at a cunning camp table. It disassembled and folded into a quarter its working size, and its purpose was the King's business; The road toll, names and detailed cases of supplicants, the number of deer taken from the Royal Preserve, and any number of bureaucratic tedium. Normally this job went to whoever had failed to empty his wine horn with a single lift at board the night before. This morning, they'd drawn lots. And it was usually set up just inside the Gates.

' I thought today would be tedium wracked by boredom…' Maithern thought, as he rested an elbow on the table and cupped his chin in his hand. Amber eyes avid, he looked from Thranduil to the cow and back again. ' With a liberal dose of boiling monotony.'

This earned him a brief glare before Thranduil prowled up to the Dalesman. The King inclined his ash blond head, folded his hands behind his back in a gesture that had been originally Oropher's, and spoke quite pleasantly, " Thelgion, welcome. Our heart does well to see you again. You have suffered an unexpected complication to your day's business." And Thranduil looked at the cow. Both dark brows lifted slightly.

" Your Majesty." The Man bowed low. Thelgion served the Master of the Hamlet of Dale and was a familiar face. Today he wore his own clothes, sturdy but plain, instead of the Master's blue and grey livery. The Laegrim behind him looked to the King, struggling to keep their faces bland, and as one they hefted their burden.

Thranduil ignored them. If they wished to laugh, they might do so under the weight of the damned domestic animal. The matter of an elfling, anyone's elfling, wandering alone through the Wood brought him no amusement.

" His poor little Highness," The Man spoke fair Westron, " He was so… embarrassed."

As Legolas should be. Thranduil's attention settled on the Royal arrow fletching protruding from the cow's eye. The shot had been good, the haft sank deep and the animal had most likely gone down before it knew what had happened. But Thedidnel and Maeneg had told Legolas that real, pointed arrows would come only after he mastered such instinctive reactions. So…not yet.

" It just collapsed." Thelgion had grey in his hair, lines around his lips and eyes. " I'd be proud if either of my adult sons made that shot, never mind a wee grandbabe the Prince's size!"

" Very kind." The King dipped his chin a fraction. " May I ask when you saw Legolas last, and where?"

So the story unfolded. And Thranduil offered compensation for the meat in good gold, which was readily accepted. When the Man's back disappeared into the shaded lane, the King turned to the cow and extracted his arrow in one long, angry jerk. The Laegrim looked anywhere but at him.

" Cousin." He called to Thedidnel. " Hang it, bleed it, cut it and…" Thranduil drew a deep breath. Domestic meat had no flavor, and no honour to place it on his board, " Cook some. Then see how we can distribute the rest."

" Nay…" Maithern breathed out, " No Laegrim would take it! And 'tis huge…"

If they couldn't divvy it up, they'd be eating it half the coming winter in various states of salting, smoking and jerking. The King looked at the eight who manned the poles. They shifted, scuffed, continued to avoid his eye.

" For Service to your Prince, you may each select a cut to take away with you." He told them. For not grabbing their Prince, they deserved it! They didn't bother to hide their woeful expressions. " O, no, if I must swallow it, so shall you. Next time, grab the child not the cow."

But, next it was a group of seven bound Naugrim that showed up before the Gates, just as the sun moved high. This time, the King came with his staff and a mithril circlet riding his brow, and Galion scrambled at double march to keep Thranduil's back in sight. The drumbeat that accompanied him was so much stronger and faster… pulsing in the very stone and earth. Thranduil's notorious temper had begun to stir.

' What a haul our little Leaf has made today!' Maithern thought just as the King emerged into the noon sun. ' Anyone care to wager what arrives next?'

The swearing, cursing pile of dwarves did not appreciate when their Laegrim escorts poked them playfully with elm walking staves. The leader of the group spoke in rapid Silvan after the King greeted him. A veteran of the Southern war, he delivered his report with unconcealed amusement, and was made very happy when Thranduil's stark face lightened.

" We're lucky Baereg isn't here, my Lord, for we all know how your Mother's Father has fond memory of hunting the little people."

Technically, not quite. But Baereg would not separate a Naugrim from a Noegyth Nibirr and referred to the both races disgustedly as ' Nibin'. Threat of pain could not make him admit there was a difference between the petty dwarves who had infested West Beleriand – so long ago – and the children of Aule who walked among them now. Thranduil, privately, did not disagree. That they were trying to establish a colony so close as The Lonely Mountain pleased the King not at all, and his Knights even less. Ai'mithe had been for running them out with elf-fire and siege. Maeneg had designed a new catapult on the off chance Thranduil might indulge her. Legolas, enthralled with the working model, wanted it as a toy. After Thranduil stumbled over it several times in various unexpected locations, he'd finally insisted it be left in Maeneg's study or suffer its loss. But he did miss launching apple slices, whole walnuts and other small objects at Legolas when his son was unaware.

" They came north by stealth. Refused the Toll and used the road anyway. His Highness found them sneaking back onto it after the second morning patrol. You should have heard him! Swearing like a seasoned archer and waving his tiny bowfinger before their beards when they called him a little golden bastard."

" Did they!" Maithern exclaimed angrily.

" Oh, my Lord, he had his own back, be easy. Khuzdul always sounds like cats choking to me, but the boy spat out enough to have them howling. That's how we found them – from the unholy din."

" Their kin can pay for their trespass or they can rot in my cells." Thranduil said it in Sindarin, Silvan and Khudzul. With a dozen armed Laegrim holding the ensnaring chord, and three Sinda bearing sword and dagger, the dwarves barely swore as they were prodded between the open gates.

' He's wandering further,' Thranduil thought, staring down into the dappled aisles between elm, oak and yew. ' Celebrethil, what dost thou? Steer him home.'

As if in reply, the sound of his cousin's horn whispered from the south west.

Thranduil drew a long breath and released in a relieved sigh: Celebrethil and Amaic had found him. Now, if only they could catch him.

oooOOOooo

Elrohir said to his twin, " This is some mad place, brother, whatever notion we had… perhaps we shouldn't have…"

" Nonsense!" Elladan whispered back. " They're edhel, as we are, they won't hurt us! We knew it would be mad…that was the point!"

The twins carried on a rapid conversation as the smaller ellon contemplated them both silently from a safe distance. He'd tied the rope around a fir trunk after giving it one last, sharp tug. Tangled and tied as they were, neither could wiggle free a dagger to cut them loose. Indeed, they could barely wiggle at all.

" This is a good trap," Elrohir tried his uncertain Doriathrin, which Erestor told them was the local Sindarin dialect. Glorfindel had actually taught them what he knew of the language, as Erestor seemed disinclined. They'd never seen their father's kinsman so… uncomfortable about any subject before. Curiosity sparked, they'd gathered as many stories as they could before deciding that they must see the remaining Knights of Doriath with their own eyes. Imagine, wanting to give up the Valar's Grace and return to ignorance…willingly cast aside everything and seek to be primitive like the Wood Elves! The smaller ellon showed his Teleri heritage with thick, pale braids and darker brown eyebrows. He had said only the one word, " Nay!", since he'd captured them and identified them as Noldor.

" Glorfindel was right about one thing – they are not fond of Father, or we Noldor at all! Did you understand his marching song?"

" Something about Gil-Galad's glorious name…but not complimentary!"

The smaller elfling's head tilted sharply, he glared at them. " Pheh!" He mock spat on the mast at his feet.

" Gil-Galad," Elladen whispered again.

" Pheh!" The tiny face scrunched harder, this mock spit louder.

" Brother," Elrohir started very slowly, " Perhaps you should rethink, 'They're edhel, they won't hurt us.' They're more than 'not fond'..."

" We are not Yrch," The smaller elfling snapped suddenly, " Noldor." They'd never heard the word used as an accusation before, just as they never heard anything but admiration…reverence…for their kinsman Gil-Galad, High King of the Elves, Lord of Lindon. " This," The youngling announced, " Many cursed day merely worsens! Now you two bloody Noldor! Oooo - Fuck me!"

Baereg's head lifted as he caught the far whisper of a very familiar phrase. It was odd, to hear Thranduil's customary curse in an elfling's treble, and odder still because the ancient ellon had not heard Thranduil say it since the day after his Coronation. In the Interim between their return from Mordor and that Crowning, Baereg had heard it a great deal. Ambition, treachery, distrust, rumor, the Shadow of the Maia's Barad Dur had traveled within them back into the Great Greenwood, where it still cast long. He listened, and asked the trees to consider working with him now, as the game was up. When he began his steady, stealthy course, the elm surrendered first. Oak were always stubborn. But the elm, they happily lead him right to Legolas…and his catch? But the trees used their vibration for edhel, not animal. Baereg didn't hear the steady rush of obscenity whispering past his own lips. Eru, what poor Laegrim had forgotten that the King's son shared that notorious temper!?

" What, in Yavanna's Green Garden, am I to do with you?" Legolas demanded of the twins Elrondion. " This caps it all with black blood and rust!"

" You could…let us go?" Elrohir tried very quietly. " We won't tell."

" You won't! Perhaps, though I know you naught to take such a feeble thing as your Word! But the trees will tell! The birds will LOVE to tell, for they are incorrigible gossips! And no squirrel ever could keep a secret! No,'tis far too late for that! You are here without the King's Permission, and even my poor Uncle Hethunor the Dim will know it by sunset. 'Tis not his fault, his skull was cracked by a dwarf's cudgel back in the Old City." Legolas dutifully added, as everyone did when the Lord Red Maple wandered away mid-sentence. Or during a game.

Legolas paused to draw a deep calming breath. The elm assured him that everything would flow smoothly, that experience moved toward him. The elfling dropped, cross legged, onto the thick mast. " 'Tis lost. I am undone." And the only prize he had was these two. " Not nearly good enough!"

" Ai, ion," A deep voice came first, and then an ellon taller than any the twins had ever seen stepped down from the middle boughs with graceful ease.

" 'Adada." The elfling greeted sourly.

Dusty black hair caught in many small braids secured by gold and mithril beads, a fine blade sheathed in plain leather, the ellon stopped dead to stare at the twins. He wore simple, natural linen under a green leather vest, and looked very much a rustic Silvan with his plain bow.

" Thingol's walnuts!" Which made the elfling gasp, give a sharply stifled laugh, and jump to his feet. Legolas pointed at Baereg.

" 'Adada, that tis a BAD one!"

More edhel began to slowly emerge from the trees. Tall Sinda and smaller Laegrim gathered around. Silvan and Doriathrin rose in a momentary whirlwind, then stilled.

' I think the little one is someone important.' Elrohir thought privately to Elladan, " And we may be in the soup." One of the silver haired Sinda took a polished horn off his belt and gave two long, low blasts. ' Make that stew.'

" What a haul you've had today, my lad!" Celebrethil announced as he tied his horn back on his belt. " I'm told we'll be eating beef til we want to rip our tongues out, there are Nibin in the King's cells…and now you have caught Elrond's Terrible Twins! Maeneg will certainly find a merry song in this!"

" Elrond!" Legolas exclaimed, whirling around to glare at the twins again.

" Elladan Elrondion, at your Service."

" Elrohir Elrondion, also at your Service." They took the opportunity as best they could.

" What is 'beef'?" The elfling demanded suddenly. " Was that a 'beef', the Dalesman's pet?"

" Beef is terrible." The black haired ellon muttered, " Flavorless domestic Man food, from something called a cow."

" Oooo, fuck me!"

" Aye, indeed." One large hand went out, " Come up, ion." And when the elfling had climbed him like a tree, Baereg walked off with him. " How much you have tried your poor father's heart this day. He would not like to hear you turning the air dark with such words. Get it all out now, and we shall go home."

" I think perhaps, I am quite empty. For now. But, what about them?"

" We take them with us."

" Nay! They're Noldor!"

" They are their father's sons. As you are your father's son. In Imladris, a heart beats in rapid worry just as it does in the King's Halls. We are not Yrch."

" I told them that. Could we, perhaps, leave them all bound?"

" Nay!"

" Ooo." Legolas groaned, " Woe."

" Aye. Woe, indeed. They are called 'The Terrible.'"

Elladan and Elrohir were at first very glad when the black braided Baereg ordered them untied. Not so much, when they were divided between two other Sindarins and held tight by their belts. Feet dangling, they had a moment to jealously note that the other elfling rode high on his kinsman's shoulder.

" Quick march!" They recognized the battle command and shot one another a look of grievous dismay. " To the Halls."

" O, let's sing something…get a rhythm…" Ash blond Celebrethil suggested as a small formation sorted itself out. "'We'll All Go Together When We Go?' Sounds right, nay?" And they commenced to merrily describe the end of Arda, the Dagor Dagorath, in time to a disciplined double march.

"For if the Doom that envelops you  
Gets your kin and forest too,  
There'll be nothing left behind to grieve!"

The twins shared a quick, harried glance: their boundless confidence shaken by the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, this time they truly had bitten off more than they could chew.

(No one panic – Glorfindel isn't far behind. But, that's the next chapter.)

Apologia: To Tom Lehrer, a genius. To Tolkien, for obvious reasons. And to you, my Gentle Readers, for the fluff. The Song ' Two Noldor, Seven Naugrim and a Pure Bred Dalish Cow." Exists and will appear after it's been 'composed' by the multi-talented Maeneg.

Addendum: Maeneg is of the opinion that parodies must have scansion, but in the matter of rhyme – the more infantile, The Better.

Fight Fierceley, Imladris!

Fight fierceley, Imladris,  
Fight, fight, fight!  
Demonstrate to us your skill.  
Albeit you possess iron might,  
None'less we have haft and will.  
How shall you celebrate your victory?  
Invite all of Mairon's Yrch's up for tea?  
(How jolly!)

Chase that one ring down the field, and  
Fight, fight, fight!

Fight fierceley, Imladris,  
Fight, fight, fight!  
Impress us with your prowess, do!  
Oh, ellons, do not let Gil-Galad down,  
Be of stout heart and true!  
Come on, ellon, fight for Gil-Galad's glorious name,  
Won't it be peachy if we win NEXT time?  
(O, huzzah!)  
And you'll try not to injure them, but

Fight, fight, fight!

(You won't be rough, though!)  
Fight, fight, fight!

(And do fight fierceley!)  
Fight, fight, fight!

Tom Lehrer's " Fight Fierceley Harvard!"

(http /LDAPGQDIzY8 This link has a space between p and : in order for the Site to accommodate it. Please remove after pasting.*)

Fight fiercely, Harvard,  
Fight, fight, fight!  
Demonstrate to them our skill.  
Albeit they possess the might,  
Nonetheless we have the will.  
How we shall celebrate our victory,  
We shall invite the whole team up for tea  
(how jolly!)

Hurl that spheroid down the field, and  
Fight, fight, fight!

Fight fiercely, harvard,  
Fight, fight, fight!  
Impress them with our prowess, do!  
Oh, fellows, do not let the crimson down,  
Be of stout heart and thru.  
Come on, chaps, fight for Harvard's glorious name,  
Won't it be peachy if we win the game?  
(oh, goody!)  
Let's try not to injure them, but  
Fight, fight, fight!  
And do fight fiercely!

Fight, fight, fight!

Dagor Dagorath or We Will All Go Together!

When you attend a funeral,  
It is sad to think that sooner or later  
Those you love will do the same for you.  
And you may have thought it tragic,  
Not to mention other adjec- tives,  
To think of all the weeping they will do.  
But don't you worry.  
No more mourning, no more sackcloth.  
Nor an armband made of black cloth  
Will some day nevermore adorn a sleeve.  
For if the Doom that envelops you  
Gets your kin and forest too,  
There'll be nothing left behind to grieve!

And we will all go together when we go.  
What a comforting fact that is to know.  
Arda wide bereavement -  
An inspiring achievement!  
Yes, we will all go together when we go.

We will all go together when we go.  
All suffused with an incandescent glow.  
No one will have the endurance  
To collect on his insurance,  
Durin's Naugrim will be loaded when they go!

Oh we will all fry together when we fry.  
We'll be oven fried potatoes by and by.  
There will be no more misery  
When the world is Mairon's rotisserie,  
Yes, we will all fry together when we fry.

Before Orodruin's maelstrom,  
There'll be a storm before the calm.

And we will all bake together when we bake.  
There'll be nobody singing at the wake.  
With complete participation  
In that grand incineration,  
Nearly half a million hunks of Allied steak.

Oh we will all char together when we char.  
And you'll find no moaning amid us Sindar.  
Just drone Noldor tedium  
When you see that gold ring gleamin',  
And the party will be "Come as you are!"

Oh we will all burn together when we burn.  
There'll be no need to stand and wait your turn.  
( ' Huzzah, I do passionately hate to wait!' Celebrethil is notoriously impatient.)

When it's time for the haul out  
And Namo calls us all out,  
We'll just drop our Agendas and Adjourn.

You will all go directly to your respective waiting Hall- ahs!.  
Go directly, do not pass Go, do not collect gold gallion-ahs!

And we will all go together when we go.  
Ev'ry Nandor and every Noldo  
When the air becomes Sauronious,  
We will all go simultaneous.  
Yes we all will go together  
When we all go together,

Yes we all will go together when we go!

(And yes, many of the words remain unchanged but they fit the sentiment.)

Tom Lehrer's " We Will All Go Together When We Go."

( YN0qvNhtGhM *)

When you attend a funeral,  
It is sad to think that sooner or later  
Those you love will do the same for you.  
And you may have thought it tragic,  
Not to mention other adjec- tives,  
To think of all the weeping they will do.  
But don't you worry.  
No more ashes, no more sackcloth.  
And an armband made of black cloth  
Will some day nevermore adorn a sleeve.  
For if the bomb that drops on you  
Gets your friends and neighbors too,  
There'll be nobody left behind to grieve.

And we will all go together when we go.  
What a comforting thought that is to know.  
Universal bereavement,  
An inspiring achievement,  
Yes, we will all go together when we go.

We will all go together when we go.  
All suffuse with an incandescent glow.  
No one will have the endurance  
To collect on his insurance,  
Lloyd's of London will be loaded when they go.

Oh we will all fry together when we fry.  
We'll be french fried potatoes by and by.  
There will be no more misery  
When the world is our rotisserie,  
Yes, we will all fry together when we fry.

Down by the old maelstrom,  
There'll be a storm before the calm.

And we will all bake together when we bake.  
There'll be nobody present at the wake.  
With complete participation  
In that grand incineration,  
Nearly three billion hunks of well-done steak.

Oh we will all char together when we char.  
And let there be no moaning of the bar.  
Just sing out a Te Deum  
When you see that I.C.B.M.,  
And the party will be "come as you are."

Oh we will all burn together when we burn.  
There'll be no need to stand and wait your turn.  
When it's time for the fallout  
And Saint Peter calls us all out,  
We'll just drop our agenda and adjourn.

You will all go directly to your respective Valhallas.  
Go directly, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dolla's.

And we will all go together when we go.  
Ev'ry Hottenhot and ev'ry Eskimo.  
When the air becomes uranious,  
We will all go simultaneous.  
Yes we all will go together  
When we all go together,

Yes we all will go together when we go!


End file.
